


The Comfort of It

by volti



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Gender Issues, Trans Male Character, Trans!Adrien, safe binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6272653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were plenty of things Marinette could handle. Being cornered at her locker by Adrien Agreste was most definitely <i>not</i> one of those things.</p><p>[<i>In which Adrien asks Marinette to mend his binders for him.</i>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comfort of It

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this A+ art](http://y-annah.tumblr.com/post/141001299019/doodled-marinette-helping-her-trans-homiecrush) by y-annah on Tumblr! It's so cute and lovely, so please check it out!

Okay, so there were plenty of things Marinette could handle. Design a few outfits? Easy, especially on her own time. A few hours of homework? Done, maybe with some complaints and encouragement from Tikki. An akumatized citizen or classmate? Doable, with Chat Noir there to help (and sometimes even without him, if he'd been captured or turned against her in some way).

Plenty of things Marinette could handle.

Being cornered at her locker by Adrien Agreste was most definitely _not_ one of those things.

Adrien wasn't even necessarily the type to corner people; he hadn't even necessarily cornered her. He'd just popped up behind her, while she was putting her books away (or maybe he'd been there the whole time, and she hadn't noticed—she knew Tikki wouldn't put it past her), and called her name.

And she, like an idiot, had practically jumped so high that she bumped her head against the top shelf of her locker. She yelped, a hand flying to the back of her head, and when she finally ducked out and tilted her head to see him— _Adrien_ —standing there with his bag slung over his shoulder and a patient, almost apologetic smile plastered on his face.

Well. The least she could do was wave. Even if her smile was bigger than his, more nervous than his. Alya might have ventured to call it desperate, if she were there. (Of course she wasn't. Of course she would have been "conveniently" waiting out front.) "Did... you need something from me?"

Adrien's face seemed to soften then, and he nodded. Even that, just the bounce of his hair over his eyes, was enough to give her butterflies. "I was wondering if you could help me with something, Marinette."

" _Me?_ " And then, after the subtle lift in his eyebrows, she backpedaled, because the last thing she wanted to do was scare him off. (Even though he was standing so... close? To her?) "I mean, uh, sure! Me! That is..." What was she still doing holding her history book? She didn't need it tonight, and maybe, if she could make herself tear her eyes away from his, she could actually form a sentence. "Is there any... particular reason you're asking me?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Adrien shrugged. "Who else would I ask?"

"Nino? Or Alya, or..." Or literally anyone else. "Anyway, what did you need help with?"

"Well, I—" Adrien reached up to rub the back of his neck, as if he were about to unload some secret on her. Something that maybe even Nino didn't know. But she was sure Adrien told him everything. Why wouldn't he? "I remembered the clothing designs you've done in the past, and that hat you made for the contest, and I thought, well, who better than Marinette?"

Who better than Marinette. She could probably die happy now. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"It's not something as extensive as a hat, or clothes, I just..." He took a step back, as if finally conscious of how close he was. "I was just wondering if you could mend a few things for me. They're important to me, and..." There was that smile again, the one that might have made her melt against her locker door if he weren't standing right there. "I trust you with them. Is that weird to say?"

Marinette froze, and it was as though every layer of that moment were finally seeping into her mind. The fact that Adrien trusted her with whatever this was. The fact that he remembered her designs, her abilities, the littlest things—the things people said close friends or even lovers remembered about you at just the right time, in just the right place, to remind you exactly why you loved them. Not that they were lovers, or anything like that—not that she even loved him (or did she? Was it just some intense"like?" Was there a difference at her age?). And then there was the fact that the tail of his shirt was practically brushing the back of her hand, and the light scent of cologne on his skin—had he always worn cologne, or was it new? Should she start wearing perfume? There was that perfume on her mother's dresser that smelled like roses; she could always borrow some—

"Marinette?"

She jolted to attention. "Huh?"

Adrien ran his fingers through his hair; it fell back into all the right-wrong places, and she clutched the edge of her locker door. "I asked if it would be okay if I came by tomorrow afternoon. Your house, I mean. It's a nice place to be, if you wouldn't mind the company. I'd come with you today, but—"

"But you have fencing practice." The words slipped out before she could catch them, and she clapped her hands to her mouth. Sure, she knew his weekly schedule like the back of her hand, but he didn't need to _know_ that.

But Adrien was looking at her in that same way, the way she thought she might have looked at him earlier. Like he appreciated that. Like he appreciated her. "Yeah. Yeah, fencing practice."

After they'd agreed on a time, after she'd reassured him that he wasn't being rude by inviting himself over and that she would love him—love to _have him over again_ —after she'd stuffed all her books away with his parting smile and the squeeze of his hand imprinted into her mind, Marinette all but bounced to the school entrance and asked Alya to pinch her.

It hurt.

———

She set an alarm on her smartphone. And then set two more alarms for that alarm. And then made sure the music coming from her computer speakers wasn't too loud to drown out any knocking, wasn't too romantic for the situation. And then Alya texted her and told her to calm down, that everything was going to be fine—and, of course, to give her all of the juicy details later. That was Alya, always thirsty for whatever knowledge and updates she could get her hands on.

Especially when it came to any advancements Marinette could make with her love life, and especially when those advancements came without a push from Alya herself.

She fidgeted in her swivel chair, fidgeted on her chaise-longue, paced back and forth until her father knocked on the trap door and offered her a gentle smile. "Whatever it is you're worried about," he assured her, "I'm sure everything will turn out fine."

"What makes you say that?" she asked, halfway to her next step.

"Because you're my Marinette," was all he said before he closed the door again.

Because she was his Marinette. Something gave her the feeling that parents were supposed to say things like that.

"I don't think he's just saying it," Tikki piped up, as if she'd read her mind. (Could she read minds? There were probably plenty of things that Marinette didn't know about her.) "There are plenty of things you're capable of, Marinette. Wouldn't this just be one more thing?"

Somehow that was an easier pill to swallow, and Tikki left her with a dreamy sigh before tucking away in her bag.

As soon as the doorbell rang, Marinette leapt up from the chaise and all but tripped down the stairs before she flung the door open. And there was Adrien, right on time, still perfectly imperfect, waving just as he had the last time he'd come over. "Am I early?"

She was sure her parents had seen him come in; she definitely wasn't going to live it down later on. Stuttering, she invited him upstairs, offered him a drink and a snack, and noted the paper shopping bag he put down before he took the pastry and glass of juice she'd set out just before he arrived. She didn't look too excited to have him here, did she? She didn't look too creepy, did she? Not that Adrien would have noticed, anyway—he seemed like he was relishing the pastry a little too much to notice. And it seemed to take him a moment to gather himself and remember where he was, because he gave a start and reached for the napkin in front of him. "Sorry, I—did you make these?"

Marinette blushed. "Last night. My dad helped."

He graced her with a thumbs-up, then seemed to sober up, as if remembering why he was really here. "Listen, I—Marinette." He said her name so seriously, and she had the feeling that she shouldn't be imagining the two of them in any other position, in any other situation. That maybe she should have controlled the chill that jumped down her spine. "The things I asked you to mend. They're really important to me. Personal." His gaze dropped to the floor, and he rubbed the back of his neck, the way he had the day before. "There's a reason I mentioned trusting you."

Maybe they were childhood possessions. A teddy bear, maybe? But Adrien didn't seem to be the type to be embarrassed by those types of things. And people might have found it endearing besides. Her hands were already starting to shake, and she hadn't even taken a look inside the bag. And they couldn't shake, they couldn't—if they did, she could make one wrong stitch, prick her finger one too many times. But before she could speak up or sit on her hands to calm herself, Adrien was already sitting up on his knees and lifting up a pile of folded cloth, as if taking an intricate dish out of an oven. "This is what I was hoping you could fix up for me. They're a little old, and..." He set them on the floor. "If you don't want to, it's okay. I understand. I can try and buy some new ones."

Marinette's brow furrowed. "What are they?"

Adrien swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. "They're binders, Marinette."

_Oh._

She sat up straight, and amid Adrien's backpedaling and reassurances that she really didn't have to, she kneeled in front of him and cradled the pile in her arms. "Will you show me what needs to be done?" she asked softly, and lifted her eyes to meet his, and she couldn't find it in her to be nervous. Not just then.

Adrien looked like he'd frozen for a moment, but then his face lit up, and his hands brushed over hers as he pointed out tears along seams, places where the fabric had worn, parts that needed to be stitched, pinned, freshened up. He asked to watch her work, and she wasn't sure if it was because her handiwork intoxicated him in some way (some way that would have had her ascending), or because he couldn't keep himself too far from these things that made him who he was. Helped him be who he was.

Marinette wasn't exactly used to an audience—not with something so delicate, and not with someone so meaningful. Except for Tikki, maybe, but Tikki had seen ups and downs and identities that Adrien certainly hadn't. But she agreed, and settled at her workstation, and turned up the music so he wouldn't be too bored. He didn't seem to be, not with the way he was huddled on her chaise with a Chinese workbook he was barely paying attention to. Not with the sparkle his eyes seemed to hold whenever she turned back to silently check on him, as if to ask if she was doing this right.

"Do you wear these when you have to move around a lot?" she asked once, offhand.

Adrien sounded like he'd choked on something. "Move... around a lot?"

She shrugged. "Like for gym class, or fencing, or—"

"Oh. _Oh._ " Adrien sighed. "No. It's hard on the ribs and lungs that way, so. Sports bras usually do the trick."

Marinette stiffened. "I'm sorry, should I not have asked? I was just, just wondering, since they seem to be pretty worn, and—"

"Don't worry about it," he replied, gently. "But maybe... if you want, I could show you a couple of websites? If you'd want to know more?"

"Right, right." Of course. It wasn't like he was a walking encyclopedia or something. It wasn't like he was obligated to let people pry, answer questions that could be found anywhere else. "That... sounds like a great idea."

When Adrien settled back in his chair, he looked satisfied. Like someone had really listened to him.

She pricked herself once with a stick pin, gave a soft cry and squeezed the tip of her finger until the blood oozed out into a perfect pearl against her skin. Before she could turn to ask, Adrien was already rummaging for a tissue and a bandage—but maybe he was just worried about the binders getting stained. "Does that happen often...?" he asked; he'd insisted on putting the bandage on himself, and Marinette couldn't help but notice the adorable way the tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his lips when he concentrated.

She swallowed hard, nodded, shook her head. "Mostly when... mostly when I'm embroidering," she managed. Had he leaned closer? Was she hallucinating? Did he always make her this hazy, or was it just when he was touching her? When she was the only person he could pour attention into? "It's hard to... um... prick yourself with a sewing machine."

"Oh." Adrien sat back on his knees; maybe it was the haze, but Marinette thought she saw a faint flash of pink on the tops of his cheeks. "Uh. Right."

She clenched her fist, unclenched it, rubbed her thumb against the fabric of the bandage. Adrien was already sitting back, poring over his workbook, like he should have been more embarrassed. (She didn't see why. She was just Marinette, wasn't she? Her father's Marinette, sure, but still.) She stitched, looped, stretched the thread taut, and Adrien scratched away, sometimes murmuring characters she'd only ever heard her uncle speak, and for a flicker of a moment she thought maybe they could be comfortable like this more often. The way parents read before bed, the way partners who'd moved in together had that comfortable way about them. Maybe they could be like that. Maybe they could fall into that.

Maybe she could invite him over more often. Make more pastries for him. Learn Chinese alongside him, teach him to use the old pedal sewing machine.

Or maybe she was just getting ahead of herself. She'd mended one binder and was working on a second. That wasn't a life commitment. That wasn't even a year's commitment.

"Adrien?" She spoke his name slowly, as if tasting it for the first time, and swiveled around in her seat.

He lifted his head like he was coming out of a dream. Like it was the first time anyone had ever called him that, or in that tone of voice. "Yes?"

If they were closer, if the pause had lasted a little longer, it would have been straight out of a book, straight out of TV. The pause, the look, the kiss that meant everything and had everyone exploding in screams and applause. Instead, Marinette placed the binder and the moment aside and asked, "How come you don't just buy new ones?"

This time, Adrien really did freeze, and Marinette instantly wanted to take the question back. With a shaky hand, he shut his workbook, and she straightened in her chair. "Actually, I, never mind, forget I asked, I'm so sorry—"

"I don't think my father likes to be reminded of who I actually am," Adrien mumbled, and her heart sank deep in the pit of her stomach. She slid forward to turn the music off, or at least down; he shook his head with a smile, and her chest tightened, because how many of his smiles had been fake? How many had she actually believed? "It's fine, really. Don't let something like that bring you down. You—you look like you really get in this zone when you're working. I wouldn't want to interrupt that."

"Adrien..."

"Really." His smile grew a little wider—a little faker.

But Marinette was already making her way to the other side of the room, telling herself she'd never tell Alya any of this, she'd never tell anyone any of this, and sitting beside him. Their knees bumped, and she folded her working hands in front of her, and the smile was gone from Adrien's face. Like she could see, right then, how real he was. "I can't work on something without knowing the heart behind it," she said earnestly, with her own heart in her throat and on her sleeves.

This wasn't the book moment, either. It was too serious for that. Too honest for that.

Adrien made a little more room for her on the chaise, even though their knees still bumped—almost like he wanted them to, like it anchored him. "You know how sometimes people tolerate things without accepting them?" he finally said, quieter than she'd ever heard him before. Quieter than the music. "My father's that kind of person, I think. So it's easier to make as little a fuss as possible."

"But..." She took a moment to gather her words; if there were any time it would be necessary to do so, now was it. "The fencing lessons, and basketball practice—"

"Nathalie advocated for me. She said it would be good for me to be more 'in line" with those activities. 'If I really was a boy.'" Adrien leaned forward on his arms, looked like he was ashamed to look at her, be seen by her; even the quotes left a sour taste in her mouth. "And then he went along with it. Like he's trying to turn me into one of those old Renaissance men. People. Whatever."

Whatever.

Not whatever.

Adrien was still talking. "Sometimes I think he does it because he thinks I wouldn't cooperate with him otherwise. And then sometimes I think maybe he does it for the image. What a good brand, a good family name. Socially progressive, because Gabriel accepts his son. That's what it looks like from the outside, anyway." He heaved a laugh. "How much prestige do you think he'd lose if people thought he didn't?"

It sounded like a genuine question, but Marinette didn't dare answer. Shouldn't have asked in the first place. Kept asking anyway, tiptoed with all the respect he deserved. "Adrien?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you happy with yourself?"

There was that silence again; of course she couldn't expect him to answer right away. When he finally answered, his voice cracked, like he hadn't spoken in some time. Or like no one had ever asked him that before. "Yeah. I am. Getting there, anyway."

"But...?"

He folded his hands like hers, and she traced circles around her bandaged fingertip. "Has anyone ever told you how perceptive you are, Marinette?"

Her stomach lurched, and she shook her head. "Usually they're reminding me of how much of a klutz I am."

Adrien didn't move, but his fingers pressed hard into the spaces between his knuckles, until they were almost white. "But," he said, "sometimes I want people to be happy with me. Because I'm never just _me_ to people. Do you know what I mean?"

She had to be honest. "I'm not sure. I've only ever been just Marinette to people."

"You're not just Marinette to me."

If this were the moment for Adrien to grab her hand, he was certainly in tune with it, because his fingers were edging between hers, and she was already praying to whatever God was out there that her hands weren't too clammy, too callused. 

"Sorry, I—was that too forward?" He started to pull his hand away, but—almost as if on instinct—her fingers curled hard against his.

She didn't know why she was talking to the floor all of a sudden, or why her voice was just as quiet as his. Maybe she'd reverted to that locker logic again—that if she didn't look directly at him, she could at least get her thoughts out more coherently. "If you're happy with yourself," she said, "or starting to be, then that's what's important. Because someday, somebody's going to come along and see you, Adrien. They're not going to... try to look around you and pick you apart. Or focus too much on some parts of you that try to prove to them that you're not really you. Or see you as that person in the magazine." She drummed her fingers against her knees, chewed her bottom lip. "Do _you_ know what _I_ mean?"

She had the feeling he wasn't looking at her, either. That maybe he could listen to her the same way she talked to him, without their eyes boring into each other. "I think so." He squeezed her hand, and this time it felt more like home than all those flutters that came with firsts.

"I mean—" She was over-explaining, but could she really stop herself at this point? Could she ever really stop herself. "I mean, they're not going to see Gabriel Agreste's son. They're not going to see your parts, or your money, or your fame. They'll just see you, and they'll be so. _Happy._ With that. With you. And you won't have to tiptoe around them, or anything."

Adrien didn't say anything for a while, but when she tried to sneak her hand out of his grip, he squeezed again. "Do you really think that, Marinette?"

Her heart rose again, and felt warm in her chest. "Yeah. I know it. And I think knowing is better than thinking." This time, when she tried to pull her hand away, he let her; her fingers brushed against his forearm, and she knew she had to be in some kind of dream, some kind of mental zone where, as soon as she left it, she'd ask herself how she ever fell into it. "Could you try on the binder I finished? I just want to..." Her cheeks grew warm, and she nearly tripped over herself on her way back to her desk. "Make sure it doesn't fit too tight. I don't know if I can finish all of them today," she added, with a couple of complicated hand gestures, "but I could have them to you by Monday? If that's okay?"

Without a word, Adrien got to his feet and shuffled to the other side of the room, weighing the mended binder in his palm, and a smile—a real one—tugged at the corner of his lips. Marinette wasn't sure if she was supposed to hear him say, "I knew I trusted you for a reason," but the flush never left her cheeks, and she shut her eyes tight and turned on her heel.

And then there was a rustle of clothing, and it finally dawned on her that Adrien was _changing in her bedroom._

But before she could talk (or stutter), there was another rustle of clothing, and a muffled, "Marinette? D'you think you could... help me for a second? I'm a little stuck."

She opened her eyes and turned around again before she could fully register it, and found herself facing Adrien with his shirt halfway on (or off?) and his other binder, worn like the others, folded and set beside her sewing machine. And she probably shouldn't have stiffened and blushed at the sight, but she did anyway. And she probably shouldn't have doubled over laughing, but she did anyway, and Adrien joined her and said he was serious, he needed the help.

There was that comfort again. Maybe they were falling into it already. Maybe it was easier to fall into because he trusted her to mend, trusted her to roll down the rest of his binder and make sure it fit snugly against him.

"How does it fit?" She didn't know if she meant in general or not. Or why her hand was still splayed out across the fabric.

She couldn't see more than the top of Adrien's head, but he gave her a thumbs-up and laughed again. "Like a glove, Marinette. But could you help me with the rest of my shirt?"

It probably would have been perfect—like books and movies—if her mother hadn't opened the trap door with a platter of cookies. While her hands were fisted in the hem of Adrien's shirt. With Adrien's shirt _halfway off his body._

Her mother only smiled, sinking back down the stairs amid Marinette's screeches of protest and Adrien's uneasy waves of the hand, and said she'd come back _later_.

———

On Monday morning, Marinette cornered Adrien at his locker, clutching the shopping bag tightly.

"I think my mom thinks we're dating," she mumbled, turning red at the recollection of explaining, again and again, that it really _wasn't_ what it looked like.

Adrien only laughed behind a hand and brushed his fingers against her knuckles when he coaxed the bag from her grip and stuffed it into his locker. If she didn't know any better, she might have thought he did it on purpose.


End file.
